


Room in This Town for the Both of Us

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:40:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22168006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Mary Wardwell seeks out Hilda at a Junior League fundraiser.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Room in This Town for the Both of Us

The floorboards don’t creak, and the pianist doesn’t stop playing. It’s not some worn and dusty saloon, and it’s not some outlaw ominously ambling in in a black hat and jingling silver spurs.

However. 

Mary Wardwell is wearing black—a tight black dress, cut modestly up top and generously down below, so short and sequined. Not exactly indecent but certainly a kind of statement, especially for the kind of event she’s just swaggered into.

And although a cinematic hush has not fallen over the ballroom at the Holiday Inn near the airport, which has been meticulously decorated for the Junior League’s annual fundraiser, Hilda in her tidy navy skirt suit sitting at the raffle-ticket table feels something fuzzy and disconcerting pulsing at the edge of her brain. It’s the kind of fuzzy and disconcerting that discomfits her, makes her think there’s another witch on the premises, makes her think there’s something odd going on.

Hilda gives Mrs. Franklin a receipt for the dozen tickets purchased, and as Mrs. Franklin retreats, Hilda’s sitting up straighter in her chair and scanning the room.

Funny. Hilda had thought she’d always been so good at scanning. But perhaps not.

“One ticket, please,” Mary Wardwell says. She’s suddenly looming over the table, appearing from seemingly the ether. She’s not particularly tall, but she looms regardless. It’s something to do with the shadow she’s engineered to cast. It’s something to do with the cadence and timbre of her voice.

And it’s something else entirely. 

Mary Wardwell’s body is enticingly encased and enticingly draped in that looming expectant way, and that fuzzy, disconcerting feeling is there in Hilda’s psyche. Amplified. It’s in her ear canals and her first rib and her hips. It feels like an old injury flaring up at a weather change. 

An ache. 

Hilda takes a drink from her styrofoam cup to buy herself a moment to regain her senses.

“A better deal if you buy five,” Hilda says.

Mary’s eyes flash. Not a regular old flash of anger or whatever. A real animalistic flash with the overhead light reflecting off retinas. Iridescent. Mary blinks, and when her eyelids open again, her eyes are a flat blue. Still deep and intriguing but not so supernatural.

Mary hums, then says,

“One is obligation. Five is a deal. What is ten? Twenty? How many do I have to commit to in order to secure an audience with you?” 

Hilda tries to parse herself, evaluate her own pros and cons, sort her own feelings. For some reason, Sabrina’s English teacher-cum-witch-tutor is here, infiltrating her Junior League event. And for some reason is bartering for time with her. She doesn’t understand what’s happening, and she’s concerned by the effect the woman has on her. But she can be a businesswoman.

“Thirty tickets, and I’ll listen to whatever you have to say,” Hilda says.

Mary leans in.

“I’ll take fifty, then”

“Bold,” Hilda says as she’s pulling tickets from the coil.

“Not the worst that’s been said of me,” Mary says.

“Oh I’m sure,” Hilda says. And with that, Mary disappears in the same strutting but stealthy way she had entered.

Hilda doesn’t see or perceive her for a half hour or so until Hilda’s harrumphing over the dubious quality of the blue ribbon orchid and comparing it unfavorably under her breath to the red ribbon orchid. She doesn’t have a horse in the race, but she can be a snob when she feels like it. 

And suddenly there’s a thin finger on one of the blue ribbon’s wilty tendrils, caressing it and inspecting it and then giving it a shove with a blood red fingernail. Hilda’s eyes rake up the finger to wrist to lace-covered forearm all the way up to Mary’s sneering face.

“A sad specimen, isn’t she? The botanist must’ve been sleeping with the judge.” They share a look and then Hilda laughs a little nervous chuckle.

“All of our judges are ladies.” Mary shrugs, says,

“I don’t see your point.” Hilda watches Mary study her, watches Mary’s eyes drag to her décolletage. Hilda says,

“Female judges are typically more principled and are less willing to accept bribes of that nature.”

“And just what nature of bribe might you accept?” Mary says, still studying.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not a judge.” Mary licks her lips, appears to be poised to speak again, but Hilda continues: “I’m just here to sell raffle tickets and look pretty. And I’m all out of raffle tickets.” Mary studies her for a second longer and then laughs.

“Congratulations in succeeding so well at both.” Hilda clears her throat, shuffles a little, says,

“Well, thank you. It was so nice running into you again—”

Mary silences her by putting a soft and very warm hand over hers and gently pulling it to rest in the crook of her own arm.

“If your only remaining duty for the evening is looking pretty, you can fulfill it anywhere. Why don’t you join me for a drink? I did buy fifty raffle tickets in order to be in your presence, after all.” She raises her eyebrows in question, and Hilda looks at her smug face and then at her own hand stark white against the black of Mary’s sleeve. Mary says, “Or was that not a good enough bribe for you?”

Mary starts walking toward the bar, and Hilda glides along beside her, leans in a little closer to say, low,

“The thing about a person who accepts bribes is that you can’t ever trust them. If they’re corrupt in one way, they’re probably corrupt in many others.”

Mary looks over, and her face flashes briefly with something dark and dangerous and then she smiles, sharp and bright and just as dangerous. Hilda wonders again about what’s happening here, why she’s been sought out, why she’s allowed herself to be drawn in.

“Hmm. A fair point. But here you are, in my company.”

“For now. You don’t know who bought 100 tickets.”

Mary places her other hand over Hilda’s—physically gently but there’s a threat there somehow, too.

“I’m not worried. I’ll have seduced you by the time anyone else tries to make their claim.” They’ve arrived at the bar now, and Hilda tries not to look too stupid or desperate as she wriggles out of Mary’s grasp. She sidesteps away from her a half step and pretends all of that was just because she needed to adjust her blazer to sit on a stool. Mary half smiles as she looks at her and says, “Don’t get too comfortable. I intend to get you into a dark corner table where your mysterious 100-raffle-ticket patron will be less likely to find us.” 

Mary orders a bottle of champagne and two flutes. She turns wordlessly to Hilda and taps the crook of her elbow with one manicured finger, prompting haughtily.

Hilda weighs her options. No one has really bought 100 raffle tickets from her—that had been a bluff to elicit a reaction—and she did promise to listen to whatever Mary had to say for 30. But also. What is this? She had previously seen this woman twice a year for parent-teacher conferences and now she sees her everywhere all the time—in her own home, at exorcisms, at Baxter High in different new capacities. Sabrina’s always talking about her and what her advice has been on witch matters. They speak four words to each other at a time and brush against each other in hallways. They do not know each other in any real way. Zelda hates her and thinks she’s not to be trusted. But what does Hilda think? The same? Something different? And why has Mary decided to show up here—here where Hilda goes to feel normal and sane and part of her community—and flirt with her, imply that the flirting is more than just innocent banter but something that could turn lurid? And what does Hilda think about that?

Hilda weighs her options. She can excuse herself, beat a hasty retreat. Or she can join herself to Mary again and maybe get some answers.

Hilda slips off the stool and links their arms and takes possession of the two flutes. 

“I think you mentioned something about a dark corner table?” Hilda says.

At a dark corner table, Mary pops the cork on the champagne and pours two bubbling glasses. They both sit staring at them. Until finally Hilda picks hers up and drinks it down quickly. She replaces the empty glass on the coaster and says,

“Fifty tickets worth of intimate conversation. Start talking.”

Mary throws her head back in a laugh, and Hilda in spite of herself watches each tendon and muscle involved in that.

“You’re here thinking I have a plan. I don’t. I just wanted your attention,” Mary says.

“But why?” Hilda says. Mary’s eyes turn serious, and her preternaturally warm hand is on Hilda’s thigh, on top of the wool blend of the skirt but the heat is radiating.

“You don’t have mirrors in your house?” Mary says.

Their eyes meet, even in the dark of this secluded corner table. Mary’s hand on Hilda’s thigh moves down to the hem, and a thumb is on skin, skimming slowly.

“What’s the world come to that I must have a three-point essay prepared for evidence as to why I should want a beautiful woman?” Mary says as her forefinger and middle finger slip off the fabric onto skin. She looks into Hilda’s eyes, and her whole hand is palpating quadriceps beneath navy skirt.

“Is that all there is to it, then? You buy some tickets and flatter me and then have your way with me?” Hilda says, trying to keep her voice strong even as Mary’s hand is exploring her leg sensually, edging toward her center.

Mary squeezes and chases the pressure with her fingernails, all the way from knee to apex.

“Yes,” Mary breathes close to Hilda’s ear. A finger now traces Hilda’s slit over her underwear. Mary’s words are wet in the shell of Hilda’s ear: “I don’t even know what the raffle prizes are. But I know what prize I want.” 

Hilda still doesn’t get it. But she feels it, whatever it is.

“You bought 50 tickets. Your odds are pretty good,” Hilda pants.

Mary kisses Hilda’s neck, open mouthed, wanton. She says against Hilda’s collarbone,

“A sure bet?”

Hilda doesn’t know exactly what she’s agreeing to. But in this moment she does agree:

“A sure bet.”


End file.
